


a blight unbearable

by jillyfae



Series: Blood and Lyrium [4]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Blood Magic, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Violence, Dragon Age Quest: All That Remains, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Politics, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-13 12:31:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4522038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/jillyfae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Violence, sex, politics ... grief. </p><p>Hawke's rise to power in Kirkwall, before and during Act II.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Politics

**Author's Note:**

  * For [missema](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missema/gifts).



> The Chant of Light  
> -Threnodies 7:11
>
>> The work of man and woman,  
> By hubris of their making.  
> The sorrow a blight unbearable.

Theia Hawke escorted her mother to their first noble reception after they’d reclaimed the Estate. It was important the Amells made a united front, after all, to show the rest of Kirkwall that they were a force to be reckoned with. She was polite to everyone, deferred to her mother in every introduction, and smiled darkly at the third sons and daughters; she made sure they’d remember the curve of her hips and the swell of her breasts not quite spilling out of her dress, so her name would be passed along in whispers and rumors, and even their parents would remember it, though they might not recall precisely _why._

After that she usually went alone. It was easier to hunt that way, a solitary predator slipping amongst her prey. They were especially delicious prey, because they thought themselves so powerful, so untouchable. 

Their pride made them so easy to manipulate. 

She flirted gently with the Viscount. Let him feel that she respected him. Let him feel valued, and powerful, and paternal. It never went past the slightest smile, and it kept him happy. 

She was demure with the Seneschal. Kept her voice even, and smooth, and only occasionally let loose with snide commentary so he could appreciate her intellect. Not that he wouldn’t have been perfectly willing to bend her over his desk if she’d asked, (and she had been tempted, he did have an intriguing reputation), but he liked to keep things at the Keep orderly, and it made him happiest if she refrained from complicating things where he had to deal with her. 

She had tea with the now-Lady Elegant at least once a week, and only flirted with her when her new husband was around, so he could fantasize about two lovely women the next time he fucked his bride. 

(Lady Elegant was the only one in Kirkwall who seemed to recognize what Hawke was doing. She smiled at tea, every time, so Hawke would know her husband’s attentions were enjoyable, and would keep on doing exactly what she was doing.) 

With those three at least nominally on her side, the rest of the nobility didn’t stand a chance. 

Hawke started with the industrialists, people who would buy the ores from her mine, who would lend her quaint Fereldan-employing enterprise some distinction; people whose patronage would make her richer, and ever more powerful. 

* * *

The Comte Artur de Bonnaire was the first. He was so sure he was her better, so sure she would submit to his every whim. So she fell to her knees, and took his fat cock between her lips, called grease and lightning to her hand, slid an unexpected finger up his arse and curved, _just so,_ until he gasped with surprise and she swallowed as he spilled down her throat. 

She’d first learned that trick to deal with Templars, years before, a distraction so no one would look too closely at her family, most especially not at Bethany. They never stopped to think the slut in the stables might have been more than that, of course, not after they’d shoved their cocks down her throat. 

_Men are so very, very easy._

Bonnaire might have regained his composure, eventually, might have shielded himself in arrogance and increased his demands, might have talked himself out of remembering such a lackluster performance, losing control only a breath after he’d made her kneel, barely hard before he was already done, but she also let his son seduce her. 

An easy flirtation at a ball ended when the young lordling bent her over a balcony railing, the snap of his hips driving him deep inside her, again and again, ‘til her nails went white against the stone from the force of her grip, and her eyes closed tight and her body clenched and he shuddered and jerked and thrust one last time. 

She opened her eyes to see his parents in the garden below, his mother flushed and wide-eyed and horrified, uncertain where to look, or what to do, his father’s hand gripped painfully tight around her arm, his face oh so carefully blank. 

And then, just to drive the point home, _I am no one’s pawn, and you are no one’s better,_ she also fucked his wife. 

She came over for a simple morning visit to apologize for her behavior at the ball. To sit just a little too close, and admit how very much she admired the Comtesse, to beg for her forgiveness and condescension. 

It took a few visits, but it wasn’t very difficult. The woman was starved for attention. Hawke seduced her ever so thoroughly, whispers in her ear and the lingering brush of fingers, heat blushing beneath her skin until she sighed, and acquiesced with a kiss. 

Not that Hawke let her stop at just a kiss. 

Hawke rode her thigh and sucked her breasts and slid her fingers deep inside until the Comtesse begged, then kissed and licked until she screamed. When her husband came home he found them together, his wife’s face buried between Hawke’s thighs, and Hawke’s whole body arced with the joy of it, his lady’s tongue pressing against her clit, the shame and horror on his face. 

The Comte refused to meet her eyes ever again, and gave her everything she (and her business) could have ever wanted just to keep her quiet. 

Not that she threatened him. She just smiled. He came to all his own conclusions. 

* * *

Milady Pritchard was even easier. (And perhaps more important, as she was the power behind most of Kirkwall’s shipping contracts.) She was not interested in sex, at least not with Hawke, but she still had her secret desires. 

All it took was one innocent conversation, a self-deprecating mention of time spent on the docks, with mercenaries, with smugglers, and of course one never looked in a client’s packages. 

_More than once._

And didn’t the Pritchard Crest look oddly familiar? 

Hawke had no idea what the Lady was hiding in her smuggling operations, but her fingers tightened enough around her wineglass Hawke thought she could hear the glass squeak. Her face stayed perfect, and smooth, and she nodded gently at Hawke in something that was almost gracious, but still clearly surrender. 

* * *

Only once did Hawke manage to convince Isabela to accompany her to a soiree at the Keep. The pirate was dressed in silk and lace, her swagger no less deadly when it made long skirts swirl around her legs, and Hawke found herself wondering if they could find her favorite balcony, brace themselves against stone or wood and taste and take all night, rather than subject themselves to the usual dance of politics and manners. 

But Isabela’s eyes were oddly narrow, her lips tight as she watched the deference on men’s faces, the shadows of lust and shame and intrigue hovering behind practiced lies and pleasantries. And when she enticed Hawke into a hidden alcove, it wasn’t to slide her tongue between her lips, but rather to push up her sleeve, and lightly run a finger along the faint hint of healing scars. 

“Should I be careful about the time I spend with you?” Isabela asked, voice both soft and sharp. She shifted the angle of her hand just enough to make her nails begin to catch on skin. “Have you worked your will on me, too?” 

Hawke swallowed an unfortunate urge to laugh, _as if I’d need blood to manipulate these fools,_ let her whispered answer linger against Isabela’s neck instead. “If I promise ever so nicely not to use a bit of magic, will you let me show you what I did to make my way into their shadows? I think you’d like it.” She let her tongue drag against Isabela’s skin, hot and wet, the edge of teeth pulling on Isabela’s ear to make her point. 

“And why should I believe such a promise?” Isabela drawled the words, soft and slow, as if she was indulging in a joke, a tease, but her eyes were hard. She never seemed to fall for Hawke’s brightest smiles. It reminded Hawke of Carver, now and then, when she forgot to tie her recollections up tightly enough in the back of her mind; he’d never put up with an ounce of her bullshit either. “Once you had me, however would I stop you?” 

“Whatever makes you think you’d want me to stop?” 

Isabela’s hand slid up Hawke’s chest until her fingers were pressed against her neck, the heavy pulse of Hawke’s heart speeding up beneath the pressure of her hand. There was more of violence than affection in the stare they shared, narrowed eyes and bodies tightly pressed together, and still Hawke could feel the heat low in her stomach, an ache building between her legs. Could see the same question in Isabela’s eyes, in the flare of her nostrils, in the tilt of her chin, _kiss or kill?_

But neither would find it easy to kill the other, even if they had more cause than the heat of the air between them, and they knew from experience they both enjoyed the fucking, so it surprised neither of them when Isabela’s lips curved into a smile, and Hawke lifted her chin to submit to the pressure of Isabela’s hand, and their mouths met in a push of uneven breaths and warm lips and swallowed sighs. 

Isabela quite refused to submit to any mysterious desires, so at the end of the night, back at the Estate, Hawke told her precisely what she’d done to the Comte and his son and his wife, to the various lord and ladies and servants of Hightown, and step by step, Isabela repeated each seduction on Hawke’s willing flesh. 

Though first Isabela tied Hawke’s hands to the headboard, just in case. 

She was the one tied down, she was the one submitting to Isabela’s mouth and hands and toys, but she was the one who spoke, who told every story, who chose every move, and she was more than pleased with the balance of her power. 


	2. power

Hawke was good with power.

Could charm and cajole and entice, or threaten and terrify. In Hightown it was always hidden behind smiles and manners. In Darktown it had to be on display, violence and fury, blood spilled on dirt and sand and stone. In Darktown at least they were honest about the consequences of success and failure. She preferred the blood to the dances, though she never turned down either.

The dances were getting a bit boring, truth be told. She’d taken care of anyone who could be of use to her, and maintaining the balance wasn’t that difficult now that they’d all settled into their roles, discreetly in her orbit. But she couldn’t quite dare avoid them, so still she went, and still she danced, and smiled, and flirted, and listened, as necessary.

It was always a pleasure when something new interrupted the usual routine.

Or someone.

He was handsome, in the way nobles always were in stories and seldom were in reality, high cheekbones and a strong chin, a hint of gold in eyes that were barely darker than his warm blond hair, the arch of brown brows almost as expressive as his full mouth when he smiled, ever so slightly, and bowed over her hand at their introduction.

He asked her to dance, his accent almost sweet, rich and lingering against the ear, and she smiled back as she accepted.

He was singularly useless to her in terms of politics or power, an isolated immigrant who kept to himself in his estate, no important ties to speak of, but he was unusually compelling, with an air of self-control it was rare to find in anyone, but most especially an Orlesian noble.

She was surprised to realize, after another dance and a leisurely stroll about with some wine, that she rather liked spending time with him, with no goal in mind whatsoever. He kissed her hand before he left, and she almost blushed, _she,_ who had done things that would make most hardened mercenaries flinch, flustered by a handsome face and a charming air.

At least she finally had a nice young man she could tell her mother about?

* * *

Hawke settled into something that was almost a routine. A day at the Hanged Man with friends and rumors, a trip through town or down the Coast to put down any particularly nasty disturbances. A few friendly morning visits around Hightown, _a few not so friendly visits keeping her reputation balanced and secret,_ and a proper fancy Ball or Dinner whenever an invitation caught her eye.

If she was more likely to accept an invitation if her handsome new beau might be there, it did no one any harm, and kept her mother happy. For her it was a surprisingly innocent relationship, conversation and dancing and nothing more forward than the occasional kiss on her hand. But being on his arm managed what all her mother’s lessons and the Expedition’s gold and Lady Elegant’s fancy dresses had failed to accomplish; she felt like a proper Lady.

And then she’d go back to leather and armor and bloodshed, and feel like herself, and wonder what she thought she’d accomplish with all the politicking and intrigue in Hightown. Not that she was going to stop. Better to have it and not need it than to be trapped, someday, with no way out.

_Never again._

But there were other sorts of power, blood and magic and steel, and she delighted in drawing that sort to her side for her immediate gratification, rather than filing it away for _someday._

She enjoyed her so-called friends, the way she brought them together and kept them there, despite conflict, despite desire, despite their own better judgment. She reveled in traveling with Anders and Fenris and Merrill, all at once, listening to the discomfort of their every word, of every breath they had to share amongst themselves, forced each of them to be complicit in her choices until all of them were furious.

She made Fenris save a mage’s life, made Anders help a Templar, made Merrill turn a runaway in to the Circle, made them all watch and smile as she agreed with the Knight Captain about the perils of demons and blood magic, only sent them away when he asked to speak to her in private, her breath catching in her chest in anticipation, wondering if he'd push her to her knees, or bend her over his desk, or if he'd turn her right around and fuck her against the thick panels of his locked door.

_Keep your friends close, your enemies closer,_ and perhaps she sometimes wasn't sure which was which, so she kept them all as close as they would let her, 'til she could recognize the barest shift of shoulders, heavy eyes or lifted chins or fingers twisted together, knew exactly how they felt about her, even when they weren't sure anymore themselves.

She gave them just enough of what they wanted that none of them could quite walk away. Varric sighed, and Sebastian prayed, but they could not leave either, caught in the webs they had made with their own words, stories and vows and secrets.

Still they followed her, still they let her twist and turn around them with every step, still they let her lead them until they hated themselves even more than they loved her.

Aveline was the only one who put her foot down, who turned her back when Hawke came calling. _I won’t turn you in, because of what we’ve done for each other, but I won’t help you anymore either. Not when you take such joy in making people dance for you, when you’d turn on those behind you if the price was good enough._

They both knew she didn't mean gold, and they both knew she was right.

Hawke imagined what it would take to change Aveline’s mind, the twist of words and deeds that would drive her back under her influence. She could see the path, the way to make the guard loyal to her, to bring them together again, and again, until even Aveline’s strong will was battered into submission.

But it seemed too much like work, _unless I use the blade, that edge of pain and power, just a moment, just a thought,_ and she owed the Guardswoman her life a few times over, so she let her plans fade away, and they agreed to a truce of sorts, avoiding each other as much as possible.

* * *

Hawke missed Carver. She could have talked to him, about her magic, about the heat in her blood, the power it gave her, the potential. But he was dead.

_Blood on my hands, the only blood I'll never wash away._

Bethany would have told her to stop, that it wasn’t worth the cost. But she was dead too. _Maybe if she’d been a little more willing, a little less cautious, she wouldn’t have died_.

Once that thought had haunted, had pushed and clawed somewhere behind her eyes when she tried to sleep. Now, though, as the years slowly passed, it settled somewhere beneath her heart, hard and true and bitter.

_Survival costs._

It cost the splash of blood on cobblestones or sand, the feel of _someone else's life,_ fleeing from a man or woman she’d killed, only to be caught by her will, no escape as she pulled it to her, as she let it heat her skin, so like the beat of her own heart, so unlike the slow and simple thrum of power drawn from the Fade.

She wondered if her Father had known what it felt like, hot and bitter and potent, power choking in the back of a throat, tingling along skin, a sharp edge of pain down the spine. She was afraid to ask her mother. Leandra knew her too well to trust her good intentions, but they’d developed an ease this last year or so that she was loathe to lose. If keeping the peace required a few small lies, it was more than worth the price.

Fenris knew right away what she was, what she could do. Anders recognized the edge to her power when she cast. Varric and Sebastian took awhile, more used to watching their enemies than their allies. No one had the nerve to talk to her about it, beyond the endless battle of wills as she and Merrill fought, and fucked, and fought again, _too far,_ not far enough, each glimmering drop of blood less precious than the knowledge they grudgingly shared.

They both wanted, but neither of them trusted, and neither knew how to share, _not anymore_. Hawke wasn't Clan, and Merrill wasn't family, and when the heat built too high between them and their words slurred with anger there were no more lessons on magic, no more words, only the clench of fingers and the scrape of teeth and the heat of lips and skin.

Isabela was the only one who watched the edge of Hawke's blade, who saw precisely when she slid the blade of her dagger between her fingers and used blood to enforce her will. Isabela was the one she took home after a fight; the one she pressed to a wall, the smear of blood sliding off her fingers and across hot skin; the one she used to burn off the pleasure and the pain, the scrape of teeth and the catch of nails, the shudder of breath when it was too much to hold in any longer; the only one whose body could keep up with the ache of her need.

Usually it was rough, but simple enough, the press of thighs and fingers and mouths until they came, once or twice, and then Isabela would stalk off to her rooms, and Hawke would stagger home to take a bath. Sometimes she’d slide her own hands between her legs again, thinking of blood and power, wondering how it would feel to use them for more than just the fight, to call Isabela back and make her kneel, to be the voice in her head she’d be unable to resist. Hawke’s back would curve and her toes would clench and she’d let herself fall beneath the water so it could swallow her screams, rage and need and shame and desire splashing against the edges of her tub.

* * *

Isabela wouldn’t let Hawke use her magic on her. Didn’t trust her quite enough to risk it.

Hawke couldn't really argue with that decision.

Magic and Merrill always led to bloodshed, the edge of red making the press of skin so hot it burned. Fucking Merrill, while always an adventure, was more about power and endurance than play.

It wasn’t safe to use it on anyone else, not overtly.

_Unless I make them forget, afterwards?_

That seemed a few steps too far, a choice that would send her falling from her life of exquisite control.

That wasn't really what she wanted. She wasn't sure what she wanted.

Well.

Maybe she was.

She hadn't been naive enough to believe in a world that required less conflict, less power, not since the first time she saw Malcolm bow his head and hide from the sounds of hoofbeats.

But sometimes it was nice to imagine. Something ... _else._

She found herself walking down by the docks, distracting herself from the philosophical with the physical, the cobbles beneath her feet, the smells of fish and spice and sweat, the endless inventive ways sailors could swear in more languages than she'd ever heard anywhere else.

Even qunlat, she thought, now and then.

She found herself wondering about the size of a qunari, if they were _proportionate_ , if a monster’s cock would be too much, or if it would finally be _enough_ , weight and strength and heat and force combining to create something brutal and unforgettable.

She doubted even she would be able to convince one to fuck her, just so she could find out.

_Blood runs through their veins too, doesn’t it? And they’re not really individuals, not people like elves or dwarves or humans; they’d even be the first to say so. No one would ever have to know, not even the one I use._

_The one I make use me._

Oh that was wrong.

That was wrong on so many levels it was hard to breathe past the thought, hard to think, her thighs pressed together as she leaned back against the alley wall, her fingers clenched into fists so she wouldn’t shove a hand down her pants, her jaw clenched and her eyes closed as she tried desperately to make herself not think about that, a powerful qunari body bent before her, or over her, around her, inside her, control lost to pleasure and power.

The muscles in her stomach tightened, and it took more effort than she was willing to admit not to rock her hips, not to shift her body enough to at least rub against the seams of her trousers, to tease a little even if she couldn’t have what she wanted.

She needed something though, a chance to lose herself in heat and darkness and maybe just a little bit of pain.

_Maybe a lot of pain._

She heard a low laugh, the scrape of boots, and peered out between slitted eyelids to see herself sort-of surrounded, one man approaching from either end of her formerly quiet alley. They had knives, the one from the left just close enough she could see the curve of a smile. Not a very nice smile.

Not nearly as bad as the one she swallowed though, the cruel singing joy through her veins as she felt his blood, hot beneath his skin, the skitter of his thoughts, dark and violent behind his eyes. “Not so smart, a pretty young thing like you wandering around down here, all by her lonesome.”

“Please, serah,” she whispered, hoping the shiver of greed in her voice would be mistaken for fear.

“No need for pleasing, _milady,_ ” the second man was more straightforward, no glinting smile, his blade held still by his side, more a potential than a threat. “Just let us have what of value you’ve got, and we’ll be on our way.”

“But I have nothing, no coin, no jewelry.” She widened her eyes, let her hands pat at her belt, empty of purse or pouch.

“Wrapped in silk and leather and you expect us to believe that?” The first man was so very bitter, so angry, she felt it, she reached for it, the darkness in him, and warmed it, heat and skin and silk within his head. If he was a decent enough man, driven to thievery perhaps, but not much more, he’d shake it off.

_If he isn’t …_

She shook her head again.

_Please._

“Those clothes and armor would feed us and ours for a month, at least.” He pressed in close, cool steel against her neck, his breath hot and ragged as his whispered in her ear. “Take them off.”

Her fingers were trembling as she reached for the first buckle, her eyes closed to help the masquerade of fear rather than the truth of her desire.

She wasn’t sure how far she wanted him to go, how far she’d let him go, and the uncertainty made her ache, made her want to see just what he would do with her, if he thought he could get away with anything.

Want to see how quickly he would die, when she turned on him afterwards.

“What the – “ A second voice interrupted, she’d forgotten about the second man, assumed he’d be no problem, but the cool line of metal lifted off her neck, and she felt the shift of air as he pushed the first man away, the thud as they hit the wall beside her. “Void take you, what is _wrong_ with you?”

Her eyes opened, just enough, to the sight of his skin, green-tinged and pale, his eyes wide and shocked. She listened to the clang as he dropped his knife, and her stomach twisted along with the shake of his head. “I – don’t, I, I’m not, we don’t.”

The second man gripped his arm, hard, glanced over at her. “Get out of here, lady. Go. Now.”

She turned, and staggered off, no longer needing to pretend at her distress, trying not to let the shakes in her hands spread to her legs, at least not until she’d made it around the corner, could lean against the wall and slide down to sit, to breathe, to swallow down a throat that felt too full, cool and slick and bitter.

She’d done that to him, pushed too hard, made him something he wasn’t, _would have killed him for going too far when I’m the one ..._

Would he ever be the same? Would he ever be able to let go of the urge she’d planted in him? Had she broken him, just because she thought she knew what the fuck she was doing?

But she hadn’t made his thoughts so dark and angry.

She hadn’t made him want to see her pain.

She’d fed them, yes, suggested a method, yes, but he was the one who’d acted on it. Perhaps his horror wasn’t so much at what he’d wanted to do, but that he’d been caught out at it.

Her thoughts felt light, fragile as glass, delicate as soap bubbles floating on the breeze, and she carefully didn’t examine them too closely. She let them settle as potential in her memories, _perhaps it is my fault, perhaps it’s not,_ and forced herself to stand, to turn, to walk back home, to let the sharp taste of copper down the back of her throat fade away.


	3. pleasure

Agreeing to help Emeric was a sensible decision; important to keep a decent relationship with the Templars. She'd "met" the Knight Commander, but Meredith was too careful to let her thoughts free. Besides, she was removed from the day to day patrols. Hawke had her _personal relationship_ with the Knight Captain, but he was still an outsider even these few years later, the Dog Lord growling on Meredith's leash. She needed more, if she truly wanted to keep an eye on the Order, make sure she'd know before they turned. 

She did not have to admit that it was also tinged with a desire to prove Aveline wrong, to show that the Guard was as human as the rest of them, capable of mistakes. Capable of failure. Aveline hadn’t been there when they’d found what was left of Ninette, or Hawke doubted that she’d be able to ignore the Templar’s arguments so easily, be able to dismiss the thought of a killer hunting on her watch. 

More than that, Hawke wanted to show Aveline, to show herself, that she wasn’t a monster. 

Or perhaps just that she was only as much a monster as the world required, that she served a purpose, at least. Hawke had probably killed more people than this elusive murderer of Ser Emeric’s, after all. She just didn’t pick on innocent civilians. 

_Usually._

She could feel it in the air when they made it to the house; something familiar in the tingle against her skin. It was magic, of course, steel and smoke and darkness, but it was something else as well. 

She couldn’t seem to place it, not past the smell of blood and dead Shades. 

“Whose house is this, anyways?” She hadn’t asked, been sure enough of Emeric’s motives, had felt the heavy solidity and straight lines of his thoughts behind his words soon after they’d met. He wasn’t the sort to lead her astray. 

Being greeted by blood magic traps had rather proven his point. 

“Some Orlesian twit,” Isabela’s voice had a too innocent lilt, her sharp smile making her eyes seem cruel for just a breath. “DuPuis, I believe, was the name?” 

Hawke gave her everything she’d wanted with that barb, an almost stumble as her breath caught in her throat, and she had to stop, to press a hand to her chest and make sure her heart still beat. 

_Not my ... not Gascard._

But yes, of course Gascard, that was the very thing that had drawn her to him, wasn’t it? Her elegant companion, he bore the weight of heavy secrets across his shoulders, mysteries hidden, guarded, just like her own, _a perfect shadowy pair,_ no matter how politely they both smiled in company. But this. This was too dark, even for her, innocent women disappearing, kidnapped, killed, taken apart, _bloody hands in sacks._

“Hawke?” Anders stepped closer, closer than he usually let himself, half worried, half annoyed. 

_Half lunatic abomination, as always?_

“I’m fine.” Hawke heard her own voice rasp before she swallowed, trying not to imagine the smug tone of Isabela’s thoughts, knowing she’d won a round in their constant shifting struggle for dominance. “Let’s go.” 

She wasn’t fine. What was wrong with her? When had she let one soft-spoken Orlesian noble work his way past her thoughts, become more than a distraction, more than a tool, _more than a friend?_

*** 

_He killed my sister._

There was desperation in Gascard’s voice, pain she recognized, loss and guilt and power and need. He was hiding something still, she felt that too, that shadow just like her soul, dark and deep and clear before her eyes, now that she knew to look for it. 

She believed him though, that he wasn’t the killer. She made Anders stand down, go after the woman, _Alessa?_ , see if he could help. Isabela offered a smirk, sly and knowing, as she and Varric trailed after him, leaving Hawke alone with Gascard. 

“Blood magic?” 

“And you?” Gascard’s voice was deeper now, rich and thick, and it made her ache in ways she was almost embarrassed to admit she liked. “Such secrets we keep. Not just for ourselves, are they? But for our families?” He stepped closer to her, close enough to touch, though she kept her arms firmly by her sides, kept her face still, kept her breath even and slow. “Does your mother know?” 

“You would be wise to keep my mother out of this.” 

He smiled then, slow and almost soft, a glint of pride in his eyes, amusement as he bowed. “Of course, messere. I do so strive for wisdom.” 

She huffed out a breath at his extravagance, but she felt her hands clench as they wanted to reach out and touch him, felt her nostrils flare as she breathed in the heat of the air between them, steel and copper, smoke and fire. 

His smiled widened as he watched, as he _saw_. “And what shall you do with me, _milady,_ now you have me at your mercy?” 

“Do you deserve my mercy?” She leaned in, just a little, imagined he could feel her breath against his skin. 

She watched him blink, just a little too slowly, before he answered. “Not in the least.” 

“Then you shall have it.” She stepped back, once, twice. “You should find another place to hide, milord. The Guard will hear of this, eventually, and you should be gone before then.” 

But at that he shook his head, he followed her, step for step, and then another, and his hand slid behind her head, fingers in her hair, heat against the nape of her neck, her arms around his shoulders, his mouth on hers, breath shared, heat shared, her blood roaring in her veins, the heat of his blood beneath his skin calling to her magic, her heart, her soul. His lips pressed, hard and firm, his body harder, leaning against her, pushing her back and back, his tongue in her mouth and his fingers clenching, her arms tightening as she pulled them together, _more,_ and she bit his lip, hard enough to make him gasp, and she turned her head into his shoulder, breath ragged and chest aching. 

“Come with me,” he whispered above her, and she nodded. 

*** 

He took her to Darktown, a place hidden, and sealed, and warded, a place she never would have found without his help, a hiding place away from prying eyes. Not that she looked around much, the final click of his lock enough to crack their questionable self-control, to turn what little attention she’d manage to spare for steps and feet and safety back to him. 

Back to the heat of his pride and his smile and his skin, to the press of his lips against hers, firm, demanding, almost as hard as the grip of his hands, the press of his chest. Her hands found his hair, his braids, tugged them free, loose and messy and catching on her fingers. She threw her head back with a moan, a sigh, as his mouth moved across her jaw, down her neck, and she felt his teeth as he bit, and sucked, and it _hurt,_ she could feel the heat of the bruise forming between his lips, the pulse of her blood beneath her skin, calling to him and his magic, calling to his cock, trapped between them, hard against her thigh, calling to the ache between her legs, the throb of anticipation in her cunt. She whimpered, soft, needing, as his mouth slid down her skin, slick and hot, and he bit again at the curve of her shoulder, harder and almost sharp, and she cried out, wordless, aching, pain and pleasure and want as her hands clenched in his hair, tight and harsh, and she pushed herself up against his mouth, his chest, her hips tilted to try to rub against him. 

“Mine,” he whispered against her neck, his nose brushing against the lingering pain from his teeth, “I shall take you, mark you, each curve of skin and flush of heat,” his voice was ragged, desperate, begging, “mine,” the _please_ an edge to every word, even if it never passed his lips. 

“Yes,” she sighed, body loose and pliant, her weight settling against him, his fingers digging into her as he pressed her close. 

“Yes to what,” his voice was lower, rougher, and she wanted it, wanted more, _wanted,_ ‘til her breath caught and her eyes closed and she could feel every line of his body pressed to hers. “What will you let me do to you?” 

“Anything.” Her eyes were open now, staring into his, so much darker than she’d ever known they could be, heat and pain and every part of her laid bare for him to see, all the things she had to hide from everyone else, rage and power and the fine wavering edge of her self-control. 

“What do you want of me,” he asked her after an endless pause, eyes wide and voice soft, even as his fingers dug in even harder, hard enough to make her nostrils flare, to make her think of the bruises he’d promised. 

“Everything.” 

It was almost a growl, the rumble in his chest, his breath, and he kissed her again, tongue and lips and heat as she clung to him. He shoved her back, her neck and arms stretching out to pull herself close again, but his hands were in the way, pulling at buckles, at straps, hard enough the edges dug in, made her breath hiss out between her lips. 

He slapped her when she tried to help, hard enough her neck cracked, her skin caught on his ring and broke, a drop of blood released to the air, copper in the back of her throat. She moaned, swallowed the pain, _I’ve killed men for less._

She didn’t want to kill him. 

She wanted him to do it again. 

Instead he pulled her close, hands in her hair and the scent of steel in her nose, kissing her cheek, the edge of her mouth, the one slow swell of blood, breath ice cold as magic edged his lips and soothed the heat. “Mine,” he whispered against her temple, “let me.” 

She let him strip her, rough pulls of leather and cloth. Let him kiss and bite and bruise as he explored her body, the press of hands, the push against her breasts hard enough to rock her on her heels, the catch of nails, every new scratch making her shudder with the feel of blood, his magic so barely contained behind his eyes, hers swirling and tugging beneath her skin. 

She made no move to touch him, to kiss him, to pull at his shirt, even as she ached for the feel of him, skin to skin, even as her thoughts flared bright and aching behind her eyes, _please, more, please._ He pushed her to the ground, grit and stone beneath her knees, pulled on her hair until her neck bent back as far as it could, pain in the curve of her back. He smiled as she tried, even then, to lift herself closer to him, his heat, his touch. 

His kiss was devastating, cruel and selfish, taking precisely what he wanted with the press of his mouth. He pulled away when he was sated, and her breath sighed out between parted lips. “Mine,” he repeated, satisfaction a flash of gold in his eyes, pleasure in the easing of the fingers in her hair, just enough so she could nod her agreement. 

_Mine._

His fingers in her hair twisted even tighter, her breath whined, soft and high in comparison to his low purr of pleasure, and this time he stepped aside and pushed, and she bent forward, until her cheek was pressed to the cool hard stone. 

"Hands behind your back." She complied, trying to find her balance, shoulders and chin, the curve of her spine, spreading her knees further apart to keep herself steady, jaw tight as she adjusted to the push against her cheekbone. 

The rope he tied around her wrists was thick, and rough, scratching against her skin, each tug pulling painfully at shoulders and elbows, shifting her weight back and forth. When he finished his fingers lingered against the soft skin inside her arms, and she whined again, breasts hot and heavy against the ground, arse lifting up in invitation, cunt clenching, protesting the ache of emptiness that he wasn't filling. 

If she thought he'd indulge her she'd start begging. 

He pressed a hand between her legs, fingers spread, rubbing back and forth, not quite in any of the right places, but none of them wrong either, hot and teasing, and she wanted _more_ , hips rocking back against the touch of his hand, feeling her slick pool between his skin and her folds, thick and wet. 

He pulled back, a trail against her skin, up the middle of her arse, one finger pushing, entering, and she groaned, low and rough, at the intrusion, his finger covered only in her slick, but that was enough to make it slide, hot and slow. 

It pulled back out just as slowly, and she sagged with her breath as she sighed, and she wished more than anything that she could see, could watch what caused the whisper of sound behind her, could see even just the skin of his arms above his wrists, more of his cock than a hint of heat and hardness beneath his trousers when they'd kissed. 

Instead she had to wait, blinking at the dirty expanse of stone and shadow, breasts tight with tension, eyes slowly closing to help her listen, to catch the shift of weight and cloth. 

She moaned when his thumb returned, slick and cool, covered in a thick salve of some sort, circling and circling the entrance to her arse, but not doing more than teasing, leaving a trail against her skin. She wanted to push up against him, wanted to encourage him, but she had so little leverage, all she could do was remind herself to breathe, to gasp back in after the first shuddering groan as his finger finally _pushed,_ and cool slick salve started to warm once it was inside her. 

She forgot even those rough uneven breaths a moment later, body tight and frozen at the first push of his cock, hot and thick, too thick, _dear Maker,_ so good, her body stretching, the pull of skin, the push of his weight, just a little, a little more, and _more,_ and she wanted to move, wanted to grab, wanted to claw at the ground beneath her and push back against him and she couldn't, couldn't breathe, knees spreading and back straightening, couldn't move, couldn't fight, couldn't help, could only gasp to fight the burn in her chest and take it. 

His hands gripped her hips, pulling her up and back against the pressure, keeping her still. She couldn't brace herself, had to trust him to hold her, not to push too hard, not to let go. She had no choice, could only let him lean in, could only listen to the whimper of her breath as he pushed deep and deeper yet, her clit throbbing and her cunt clenching and her arse stretching, a shiver up her spine and heat in her hips and he was so far inside her, his body pressed to hers. She could hear each breath, his and hers, deep and rough, could feel the hard press of stone warming beneath her cheek, against her chest, the dig of his fingers into skin, against the bone of her hips, and _his cock,_ _Maker,_ his cock filling her, she was so full of him, pressure building and muscles trembling. 

The world went white when he rolled his hips, fire searing beneath her skin as he pushed just enough further in that her body jerked, quick and hard, so hard her cheek scraped despite the grip of his hands, and she cried out, high and sharp and wordless, pleasure and pain, and he growled, and she _begged,_ "please, please," again and again, _more and more, Gascard, please._

He rolled his hips again, _again, again, again,_ her fingers were curling, nails digging into her palms, and she jerked again at the scent of blood between them when the skin along her cheek finally tore, the flash of her magic beneath her skin, wrapping around him, the throb of his magic inside her, and she screamed, _fire and smoke, burning, no breath, no air, no end,_ and she came, _white and heat and steel and copper,_ and she could hear him cry out, could feel his hips lose their rhythm, she could feel the tears leaking out from beneath her eyes, could feel each gasp as she tried to breathe, as she tried to settle back into a body gone weak and trembling even as his fingers eased and his breath found her back as he lowered her hips to the ground and he sagged above her body. 

Breathing was good. It was enough, at first, but eventually she shivered, pressed to the stone, cool air against her back, the feel of slick and seed dripping down her arse, down to the floor, grit ground into her knees, the hot pain of her cheek, the sharp ache of the bruise on the other side from his slap, assorted bruises and bites dull throbs all over her body. 

"Theia," he whispered. She shivered again, the sound of her name, so rarely spoken, felt like a secret shared. She felt the whisper of magic, smelled rope singe as he burned the knot. He slowly pulled it free of her wrists, pausing when she hissed at the catch of fiber against skin gone raw. The rope slithered along her side as he dropped it the floor, and the brush of his lips against her wrists made her sigh. 

She felt wonderful. Warm deep inside, despite the cool air of underground tunnels. Floating. Waiting. Watching his hands as he helped her up. Admiring the way light caught in his hair, reflecting in his eyes, as he gently stepped aside, urged her to a side room with a pump and a drain. Magic again, made her close her eyes and hum, feeling him warm a bucket of water. She kept her eyes closed as he cleaned her, the brush of cloth, the trickle of water against her skin removing dirt and stone and slick and seed and blood. 

"May I?" He whispered when he was done, and she sighed, and he kissed her again, soft and slow and endless, his arms wrapped around her to keep her warm, her weight resting against the plane of his chest, brocade rough against her skin. 

She laughed, softly, _still haven't even glimpsed the skin of his shoulders,_ and he pulled back, cupped her cheeks, fingers gentle, carefully spread along her jaw to avoid raw skin and bruises. His eyes were dark, a crease between his brows. 

"You look like you were in a fight." 

She kissed his nose. 

His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed dark. "You may, if you wish?" He lifted her hand, pressed her fingertips to the jump of his pulse in his throat. Her own heart leapt at that, a hard pain in her chest, her breath gone sharp and fast. 

Neither of them could heal. Not traditional creation spells anyways; they could only steal someone else's vigor, pass it along or keep it for themselves. _That he would offer ..._

She let her hand slide back, fingers just catching in the hair above the nape of his neck, pulled him close to kiss him again, to let her tongue tease just past his lips, to taste him, to savor this moment they'd made for themselves. 

"Thank you." She smiled, felt the ache in both her cheeks at the motion, ignored the sting in her wrists, the knot between her shoulder blades, the ache in her knees. "But I know a spirit healer." 

Gascard's eyebrow lifted, ever so delicately, _ever so Orlesian, how did this happen?_ "And when she asks what happened?" 

"I'll tell him not to worry his pretty little head about it." 

Gascard sniffed, and she laughed again, short and breathy. "I promise, he's very discreet. Doesn't want to attract the Templars, now does he?" 

"If you say so." Gascard's hand reached up again, fingers hovering just past the swell of the bruise on her cheek. "If you are sure." 

"I am." She glanced down between them, the expanse of her skin, the dark lines of the dragon curling around her stomach, tattooed flames dripping down her thigh. "I'll need clothing, if I'm to brave the Darktown tunnels?" 

"Of course." He blinked, slow and heavy, before turning and leading her back to the main room, her clothes and armor scattered across the floor. He helped her dress, only occasionally slowing them down with wandering fingers or a kiss against her skin, and just as she was almost done he pulled her close, tucked his head down tight against her, breath hot as he whispered against her ear. "Come back to me as soon as you can." 

"Of course." She kissed him again, hard and fierce, and left. 


End file.
